


Bellus et Bestia - Side Bits

by CandidCantrix



Series: Bellus et Bestia [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Blood Magic, Captivity, M/M, Seheron
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 05:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4048660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CandidCantrix/pseuds/CandidCantrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Extra bits and pieces written for prompts on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before The Beginning, Or: The Story of Why Dorian Doesn't Have Any Chairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "before the beginning", for [Tofsla](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla).

Dark clouds rolled in with the night. Outside the summerhouse on the cliff, already atmospheric to an unnecessary degree, a tortured noise echoed on the edge of hearing.

If there had been a passer-by - though there were never passers-by, not with all the ghost stories - they might have heard it through a window. And if they’d been a particularly intrepid passer-by, they might have crawled in through the window, getting covered in dust in the process, and tracked the sound to a corridor in the middle of the building.

If they had, they’d have found Dorian, dragging an entire oak table behind him. He had two legs braced under his arms, and two trailing on the floor, and every time he found the strength to pull it a little further, the thing screeched on the marble like a squashed nug. 

It was unfair, really. The curse had been bad enough, but ignoring his father’s involvement (and he planned to, for as long as he could drink it down), it could almost be considered a natural hazard of his homeland. Curses, evil rituals, demons in inappropriate places; nothing that would raise more than an eyebrow or two in polite society. But heavy lifting? He had acquaintances who would faint at the thought. 

Alas, he wasn’t exactly overburdened with friends or slaves these days, so he had little choice. The summerhouse wasn’t safe to stay in for too long, and he was developing an undignified habit of jumping when the ceiling creaked. No, the notes he’d found in the library mentioned an escape route through the floor down to a cave below, and it sounded… practical. It also sounded other things, like “cold”, and “unsuited for habitation”, but it did lack the main thing that was concerning him on the surface, “Qunari”.

Still, just because he’d become a demonic abomination and was currently squatting as a fugitive in a dead magister’s house, didn’t mean he was a savage. If he was moving into a cave, he was taking all of Vassilius’s incredibly expensive and tacky furniture with him. First the table, then maybe a set of chairs. A nice one for his workbench, followed by some comfy ones for relaxation. Perhaps even another little table to put ornaments on.

Dorian dragged the table over the threshold to the escape route room. One of the legs caught on the doorframe and protested almost as loudly as his arms. He swore at it, and when that didn’t entice it to move, he burnt a little chunk out of the wall around it. Finally, he managed to manoeuvre the table into the middle of the room, by which time he was sweating. It was really quite miraculous, given that half his skin was now some sort of leathery demon flesh and he’d never pictured demons as the sweating types.

He regarded the table with completely justified pride, even the one leg that he’d accidentally singed.

The spell was simple enough. Some small drawing on latent earth magic combined with a short incantation, and the item would drop through to the cave beneath. He read off the four words he’d written on a piece of paper.

The floor revolted against him. His feet flailed as they dropped, pulling him bodily through the ground, which proceeded to whack him in the face long enough to fill his eyes and mouth with dirt before deciding that the entertainment value had run out and spitting him out. He landed on solid rock. There was just time to roll over and groan, and then an entire oak table fell through the ceiling.

Miracle of miracles, it landed upright with all four legs outside his body, framing him like someone’s rather shoddy attempt at a tomb.

He opened his mouth to sigh with relief, and some mud trickled off the underside and dripped onto his face.

When he’d finally finished spluttering, he pulled himself out with a growing wonder at how much of the human body there was to bruise, and looked up at the ceiling. Somewhere up above, his set of chairs were waiting.

He looked back at the table.

He could work standing, he decided.


	2. Events From a Different POV, Or: Dorian and the Unconscious Qunari

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt, "something that's already happened, retold from another character's perspective", for [Alphabetiful](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alphabetiful). 
> 
> A.k.a.: Dorian's POV of the beginning of Chapter 2.

Both Dorian and the Qunari tumbled down through the cave ceiling and smacked into the floor. Dorian had been preparing himself for the landing, but then the brute had lunged at him, and he hit the ground at an angle. His vision went white, just for a second. All his muscles jarred. Somehow, he forced himself to roll over anyway, and was already scrambling to his feet before his head had stopped ringing. 

But the Qunari didn’t move.

Panting, Dorian drew himself up properly, and braced one hand on the table. The candle glowed at the flick of a thought. It threw the Qunari’s legs into shadow, but the sharp light flickered over its face. Its eyes were closed.

Was it dead? A lucky escape, if so, possibly the first real piece of luck Dorian had been granted in months. It almost made him laugh out loud. There he’d been, ready to fight for his life, and the beast got taken out by the floor!

He took a small step forward. Then another, when that proved safe. Slowly, slowly, he crouched down by the massive body. 

No flicker from the eyelids. Promising. 

He touched a claw to the Qunari’s shoulder, pressing a tiny dimple into the firm skin. Still no reaction.

Then, he caught the movement. A slight rise in the chest. Dorian sucked in a breath and conjured a fireball for extra light, displaying not just the Qunari’s slow but visible breathing, but the dark puddle spreading from his side. It looked almost black in the lighting.

Dorian stood up and drew back to a safer distance, putting the table between him and the brute. So. It  _was_ alive, and now he had to decide what to do about that.

Well, obviously he had to kill it. It’d already proved itself dangerous, after all. But how? The situation had been a lot simpler when it’d been coming at him and he hadn’t had time to consider the details. When it was just lying there, waiting for him to finish it off…

He was a mage, he didn’t have a sword. The Qunari’s axe had ended up somewhere above them, by the looks of it, and he doubted he could have lifted it anyway. He did have a staff somewhere, but - how did you kill something with one of those close up?

He had an image of bringing it down onto the Qunari’s skull, shattering it into a pulpy mess, and almost vomited. Urgh. Leave that sort of gory violence for the Qunari; he wasn’t prepared to burn a perfectly good staff.

Magic was the obvious weapon, but here? Conjuring a lightning strike in a cave? Chilling the Qunari’s toes a little and then chipping pieces off him? Oh, there was always good old fire, but Maker, he thought hysterically. Think of the smell!

Something… something like a knife across the throat. Like hunters did. Quick, painless - or he hoped, anyway, he didn’t like to think about that too much - and no more mess than the Qunari was already leaving. He’d have to figure out what to do with the body afterwards, but that was a problem for when the immediate threat was gone.  

Only he didn’t have a knife either.

He looked at what had once been his hands, now grey and bony and set with black claws like arrowheads.

He didn’t need a knife, did he? Not a monster like him.

Shaking slightly - why, he wondered - he poured more strength into the fireball in his left hand, and flexed his right. He knelt back down in front of the Qunari. Took in the closed eyes, the slack face, its bared throat. And he aimed his claws.

Then the eyes opened.

He was ready to pull back, but the Qunari didn’t move any further. Its gaze wandered over the ceiling, not seeming to focus on anything, and finally came to rest on Dorian’s face. For a second, it was the sharp grey stare he remembered noticing in the mansion, the one that seemed to speak of more intelligence than he’d ever heard attributed to a Qunari.

Then they slid closed again.

Dorian waited, hand trembling in mid-air, watching for another movement. But no more came.

He stayed there another moment.

Finally, he shook his head, cursed, and went to dig out those curious devices he remembered seeing in Vassilius’s box of toys.


End file.
